Those Sunday Mornings
Based on the poem of the same name by Robert Hayden
In the days of my youth fortune was hard to come by. I wasn't as lucky as I am now with a steady job and pay. My father worked hard to bring food to the table and I often neglected to see his love for me.
We had an old house then. It was a fixer-upper, as Mom would say. During the harsh winters in Minnesota the cold seeped through every crack and hole like water through a sieve. The only means of heating our home was through a blackened fireplace.
My dad would wake early on Sundays, despite it being his only day off from work, and would light a fire well before dawn so that when he later woke us the house would be warm. He must have ached all over; his hands were cracked from the wind and cold, his back more often thrown out than not. Even in his thirties he began to develop arthritis. Still, every Sunday, he woke to light that fire.
Sometimes I'd wake up and could hear the logs in the fire popping and fizzing as the cold thawed out of their crevices. Dad would call to wake me up and I'd take my sweet time dressing to go to breakfast, for I knew that the hours of labor and back ache would leave him short tempered.
I was always cautious around Dad. He would grunt when he wanted something and had a perpetual scowl masked on his face. Mom assured me it was the work that wore him down and that he really cared for me deeply, but I was certain he hated me and showed it through his anger.
I would speak to him passively.
"How'd you sleep?"
"Fine."
"Anything new going on in school?"
I'd shrug.
He had to have been speaking out of courtesy. My dad was a cold, uncaring man. The only thing that warmed his heart was the heat of that fire. Or so I thought, when I was young.
Years later – when I was married and had a child of my own – I saw the error in my judgment. Love cannot be expressed through words alone, there are subtleties in people's actions; nuances in their smiles and touch. How could I have been so blind so as not to see my father's love?
He polished my shoes for me and warmed me when I was cold. Though he never said how he felt, he'd shown me his love by taking care of me.
I feel foolish now, looking back on those cold winter Sundays. I would have liked to thank my dad, had he not died before I realized how much he loved me. Now I start a fire to warm my home every Sunday and hope my son will one day see this as an act of love for him.
A/N: Review please; flames are welcome just not desired.
